


would you love me any less

by givebackmylifecas



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Andrés centric, Angst, Canon Illness, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Terminal Illnesses, no death though i promise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:35:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26998288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/givebackmylifecas/pseuds/givebackmylifecas
Summary: “I’m dying,” Andrés says.It’s not how he wanted to say it. He wanted art and speeches about Michelangelo and last wishes. Wanted to be able to point at something and say, ‘I’ll be gone soon, but look at what I’m leaving behind’. Instead he has a handful of words that he can barely force from between his gritted teeth.“I’m dying,” he repeats. “I’m dying and that’s why... I want to promise not to leave you, but I can’t, I’m sorry.”A look at how Andrés deals with his illness (with and without Martín)
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa & Palermo | Martín Berrote, Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 8
Kudos: 64





	would you love me any less

**Author's Note:**

> i tried to write andrés angst but i'm not sure it worked lol
> 
> TWs: canon terminal illness, canon injuries, referenced suicide attempt, discussion of illness symptoms
> 
> fic title from the charlie simpson song 'would you love me any less'

There’s a high-pitched ringing in his ears. In front of him, the doctor is still talking – something about statistics and treatments. About mortality rates and pharmaceutical trials. About how this isn’t a death sentence and would he agree to more testing?

Andrés nods – at least he thinks he does. All he can think about is a February morning years ago, the snow soaking his good pair of shoes and Sergio’s trembling hand in his and the reverent droning on and the tears freezing on his face before they could fall as he watched the pallbearers lower his mother’s coffin into the ground.

“Señor Fonollosa, I know this can be very overwhelming,” the doctor says gently. “But you have options. The muscle weakness isn’t too severe yet –“

“Yet,” Andrés says, spitting the word out distastefully. “But I’ve seen what happens when it becomes severe. I will not become a drug addled zombie that can’t keep my own lungs working without machines.”

The doctor nods, his face creased with understanding. “Of course, and I don’t want that for you either. Which is why I’d like to prescribe you a medication called Retroxil. If injected directly into the distal muscles that are most affected, it can significantly help maintain functionality for longer.”

“For how long?” Andrés asks.

“You know I can’t give an exact prognosis,” the doctor says, but holds up his hands when Andrés sets his jaw obstinately. “Fine. Based on what I’ve seen… anywhere from three to six years before the muscle dystrophy affects your respiratory system. Maybe eight at a push.”

Andrés nods and the doctor starts scribbling on his prescription pad, before tearing off a page and handing it to Andrés along with a stack of pamphlets detailing experimental treatment options.

“Thank you,” Andrés says automatically, clutching the pile of glossy paper and wondering how much longer he’ll be able to hold them without second-guessing his own hands.

It’s raining when he gets outside and there’s nothing he’d like more than to return to the monastery, with its heavy velvet drapes that keep out the worst of the cold and damp, but instead he crosses the road to the pharmacy.

It’s almost too bright inside and he has to wait in line behind a tired, wrung-out looking mother and her snivelling, mucus producing offspring. The child sniffs loudly every few seconds, interspersing every third sniff with a wet cough. By the time they’re done and Andrés is called forward, he feels wound tight and rubbed raw.

Still, the pharmacist is pretty enough and he offers her a charming smile that makes her blush while she gets his medication for him and then explains how best to inject himself, noting that there are instructions in the box.

“But it’s probably best if you get a friend or… girlfriend to do it for you,” she says and his smile becomes a little forced.

“Of course, thank you so much for your help.”

-

The drive back to the monastery is a long one. By the time he gets there, parking his car outside the main gate, it’s pitch dark and he almost trips while trying to get his keys out.

He keeps his bundle of pamphlets and the medication, as well as the box of syringes, under his coat. He doesn’t need any of the nosier monks – and certainly not Martín – finding out before he’s had time to process.

The hallways thankfully remain deserted and he reaches his room unimpeded. He hastily stuffs everything in a box next to his bed, just in time to hear a knock on the door, followed by Martín sauntering in without waiting for him to answer.

“So you are here,” he says cheerfully. “I thought I heard you come back. How was your appointment?”

“Appointment?” Andrés repeats – he hadn’t accidentally told Martín about the doctor, had he?

Martín nods, frowning. “Yes, with the owner of that jewellery shop – did you manage to get a good look? Do you think it’s worth robbing?”

Andrés lets out the breath he had been holding. “No, I don’t think so. It wouldn’t be worth the effort.”

Martín makes a disappointed sound and flops down on Andrés’ bed, making himself right at home, as he always has. Andrés ignores the twinge in his chest at the thought of how comfortable Martín looks, how his tanned skin is offset perfectly by dark silk of the sheets.

“Where’s Tatiana?” he asks, because he cares about her and not his lounging friend.

Martín rolls his eyes. “She went to visit her mother, remember? She tried to wait and say goodbye, but I guess you got back too late.”

“Right,” Andrés nods. “Oh well, that’s probably for the best. You know Sergio is coming in two days. Now we have more time to work on the plan, just the two of us, before he gets here.”

“Exactly,” Martín says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. In fact, they’re narrowed with concern as he looks up at Andrés. “Are you alright, Andrés?”

Andrés waves a hand dismissively. “Of course, I’m just tired.”

Martín nods, his worried expression clearing. “Do you want me to leave, let you get some rest?”

“No,” Andrés says immediately and hopes his friend doesn’t hear the hint of desperation in his voice. The last thing he wants right now is to be left alone with his thoughts. “No, stay. Let’s have a drink.”

He crosses to the cabinet in the corner and fishes out the bottle of whiskey he’d stashed there to save it from being pilfered by Martín. He grabs two glasses and hands one to Martín, who immediately holds it out to be filled.

“No wine tonight?” Martín asks.

Andrés shrugs. “It was a long day. And we might as well enjoy it before my unappreciative brother arrives.”

Martín smirks. “Remember when he spat out the thirty-year-old whiskey I gave you for your engagement a few years ago?”

“Vividly.”

Martín laughs and moves over so Andrés can sit next to him. It’s odd, how Andrés doesn’t feel as much pressure to be impeccably dressed and put together in front of him. He allows himself to loosen his tie and kick off his shoes and lean casually against the headboard. He supposes it’s because they’ve known each other so well for so long – but then again his wives had known him intimately and he still felt the need to be artfully dishevelled rather than truly messy in front of them.

Martín clinks his glass against Andrés’, rousing him from his thoughts, and offers him a mock salute.

“To your health,” he says and Andrés almost chokes on his whiskey.

It makes Martín laugh, but he still reaches out and pats Andrés on the back. Andrés offers his own smile and asks about Martín’s day, which sends him off on a tangent about the calculations he’d been working on. Andrés relaxes, letting the cadence of Martín’s voice soothe him as he gets more and more passionate about the misbehaving variables he’d beaten into submission while Andrés was gone.

They’re two-thirds of the way through the bottle of whiskey when Martín starts to wriggle his way off the bed.

“Where are you going?” Andrés asks, blinking heavily.

Martín smiles at him and it's lopsided from how his face is squished against the mattress. “To my room. It’s late.”

Andrés shakes his head, but stops when it makes him dizzy. “Just stay here.”

“Yeah?” Martín asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes. You don’t want to have to walk through those hallways at night. Besides, it’s cold and you’re warm.”

He doesn’t receive a verbal answer, but Martín shimmies out of his jeans, haphazardly throwing them onto the floor, before crawling under the sheets. Andrés drags himself off the bed for long enough to change into pyjamas, then returns to Martín’s side. He reaches out and turns off the lamp, plunging them into almost absolute darkness.

He can hear Martín breathing next to him and he almost unconsciously shuffles closer. If he strains his eyes hard enough, he imagines he can see the box containing his medication and the information on his illness. He could tell Martín now, whisper it into the scant space between them. His friend knows about his mother, about her illness. Andrés once told Martín that his greatest fear was receiving the same diagnosis. Martín had only clasped the back of his neck and said they’d cross that bridge if they ever came to it.

Now Andrés has the bridge right in front of him, but he doesn’t want to drag Martín across it with him. He doesn’t think he can stand to have the other man look at him with pity, to insist on sticking around and watching as Andrés’ own body fails him and stops doing the one thing it’s supposed to do – keep him alive. He sighs and Martín shifts beside him, startling Andrés when he wraps a hand around his wrist.

“What’s wrong?” Martín asks, words slurring together, but still coherent enough to be tinged with worry. “I can practically hear you thinking.”

“Nothing,” Andrés tells him.

Martín snorts in disbelief. “Really? Because you don’t usually get piss drunk and then insist I sleep with you.”

“You can leave if you want to.”

Martín’s fingers tighten around his wrist. “You know I don’t want to.”

It’s too dark to see him, but Andrés can imagine how Martín is looking at him: brows pulled together, eyes wide and desperate for something he’d never say out loud, but Andrés would have to be blind not to see.

“Then just stay and sleep,” Andrés finally says, but he can’t make the words as sharp as he wants them to be.

Martín doesn’t say any more, but he also doesn’t let go of Andrés, who can’t or won’t ask him to do so.

He’ll have to tell Sergio, there’ll be no keeping this from his brother, and he knows that if nothing else, it will make his diagnosis real. So for now, he listens to Martín’s breathing evening out and appreciates the feeling of Martín’s fingers on his skin. He’ll tell Martín eventually, certainly before they do the bank heist together. He will.

* * *

Martín stares at him, speechless, for a full thirty seconds, before he closes the door in Andrés’ face. To be quite honest, he’d expected that. He raises his hand and knocks again.

“Martín,” he calls through the worn wood. “Open the door, please.”

He hears footsteps, then the door opens again. Martín is dressed in a vest and pyjama bottoms, his hair greasy and dishevelled. He looks thinner than when Andrés last saw him, pressed up against the chapel wall, eyes wet and mouth twisted in pain. He wonders if he backed Martín against a wall now, would he feel different, sound different?

“What the fuck do you want?” Martín demands, face contorted with an anger that Andrés is not used to having directed at him, even though he knows he deserves it.

He glances around the dingy hallway. “Could we maybe talk inside? I’m on the run, you know.”

Martín’s scowl deepens, but he turns and walks into his flat, leaving the door open. Andrés follows him in, closing the door quietly behind him and drawing the chain across it. The flat is small, not very clean, and littered with empty bottles that illustrate the life his friend has been leading for the last few years. Martín leans against the fridge, arms crossed defensively across his chest.

“May I sit?” Andrés asks, gesturing at a rickety chair.

When Martín just shrugs, he gratefully sinks onto it, his joints protesting at the harsh treatment he’s subjected them to over the past two days of constant travel.

“Why are you here?” Martín asks, voice harshly inflected as he glares at Andrés.

“I came to apologise,” Andrés says, waiting for a reaction, but he receives none beyond Martín grabbing an open liquor bottle and taking a long swig. “I shouldn’t have left the way I did – or left at all.”

Martín nods. “Fine, you’re sorry. Now, get out.”

“Please, let me just –“

“No,” Martín interrupts. “I don’t want to hear any more of your lies. Get the fuck out of my flat.”

Andrés frowns. “I’ll leave. But before I do, please at least tell me what lies you’re accusing me of telling.”

The bitter laughter echoes hollowly around the kitchen, though no mirth reaches Martín’s eyes. “Don’t play dumb, Andrés. Or have you told so many lies, you can’t keep them straight anymore? That’s alright, I can’t forget, no matter how hard I try, so here are just the best ones.” His eyes are damp as he steps closer, voice lowering in a poor imitation of Andrés'. “We’re soulmates. I love you, Martín. I’ve never felt for any of those women, what I feel for you – any of that ringing a bell, Andrés? Or should I call you Berlin now?” he sneers and a tear rolls down his face.

“I remember,” Andrés says, fighting to keep his voice calm. “But none of that was a lie. I lied to you, yes, but only when I said I don’t feel the same way you do. The same way you did then. It was cruel, but it was necessary. Sergio would not allow you to be a part of the plan, and I knew no other way to convince you to leave.”

Martín shakes his head. “You’re lying again, you’re trying to manipulate me.”

“No. Never… never again,” Andrés promises fervently. “I nearly died in that hellish mint, and my only thought was that I needed to return to you, to make amends, to beg you for forgiveness and hope that you’re a better person than I’ve ever been.”

He bites his lip to prevent himself from speaking anymore. He cannot tell Martín about the illness, not now when he is close to getting him back, when something like that would only send him running. Martín, when he loved Andrés, loved the man who was whole, whose body didn’t threaten to betray him. It’s the most selfish thing he’ll ever do, but he wants to be that man again, and to have Martín for as long as he can before he can no longer keep up the act. When that happens… well, he was never one for a long, drawn-out death – and there are easier ways to achieve an end than suicide by cop in the basement of the National Mint.

“I love you,” he confesses and he wants so badly to reach out and touch, but he doesn’t know how it’ll be received, so he stays seated, the five feet between him and Martín seemingly unassailable.

“I want to believe you,” Martín admits, the words emerging half-choked. “But the last time you said that, you left me for three years.”

“I know. I know and I’ll never regret anything more. But I’m here now and I’m telling you that I love you, just as much as I did then and I want you – need you to come with me. I can’t live without you, Martín.”

He words it as carefully as he can, without losing the urgency, doing his best not to let it sound like the pleas of a dying man with less than half a decade left. Martín stubbornly wipes at his tears.

“I love you too, Andrés. But I need you to prove that you mean it. So here and now, swear to me that there will be no more lies.”

“Of course,” Andrés promises. “Whatever question you ask, I’ll reply truthfully.”

Martín nods. “And you can’t leave me again, because I don’t think I’d survive it. Promise me, you won’t leave.”

Andrés hesitates. Because he’s just promised not to lie to Martín, but he knows whether it’s a year from now or five, he’ll have to leave the man he loves no matter how little he wants to. He hesitates and Martín sees and Andrés watches his heart break.

“Get out!” Martín yells.

“Martín, I can explain,” Andrés tries and then the bottle Martín was holding is smashing into the wall on the other side of the kitchen.

Martín looks incandescent with rage, shaking, even as tears stream down his cheeks. “I need you to fucking leave. I can’t believe you, Andrés. I ask for one thing and you can’t even do that. What was this? Just an attempt to get me to warm your bed until the next wife comes along? Go fuck yourself, you son of a bitch!”

“No,” Andrés says, getting to his feet and moving towards Martín. “You don’t understand.”

“Then explain!” Martín demands.

Andrés thinks about the syringes in his hotel room and the gun next to it and the look on his latest specialist’s face when he asked them how long he had left and how in the end his mother couldn’t go to the bathroom by herself.

“I can’t tell you,” he says and Martín makes a sound halfway between a scream and a growl.

“Then get out! Leave! Explain right now or fucking leave and never come back!” Martín orders, his eyes wild as he stares Andrés down.

Andrés clenches his hands, wincing as his fingers almost immediately start to cramp.

“Andrés, please,” Martín says and it’s softer than anything he’s said so far, so much more familiar, like they’re back in the monastery.

“I’m dying,” he replies.

It’s not how he wanted to say it. He wanted art and speeches about Michelangelo and last wishes. Wanted to be able to point at something and say, ‘I’ll be gone soon, but look at what I’m leaving behind’. Instead he has a handful of words that he can barely force from between his gritted teeth.

“What are –“

“I’m dying,” he repeats. “I’m dying and that’s why... I want to promise not to leave you, but I can’t, I’m sorry.”

Martín is frozen opposite him, a statue finer than anything Andrés has seen any museum, despite the bags under his eyes and the stain on his shirt. Then he’s moving and he’s right in front of Andrés and his arms are around him and he’s no longer a statue. His body is soft and yielding and so warm, Andrés thinks he might finally be able to rid himself of the chill in his bones.

“Your mother’s disease?” Martín asks, stubble scraping against Andrés’ neck. Andrés nods and Martín holds him tighter, arms encircling him fully.

“Did you know, before you went into the mint?” he asks and again, Andrés nods. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Andrés breathes, more deeply than he has in months, and clutches Martín tighter. It’s easier if he doesn’t have to look at him.

“I couldn’t stand the thought of you knowing and staying and watching me… deteriorate,” he says into Martín’s shoulder. “I couldn’t bear it, I still can’t bear for you to think of me as anything less than the man you knew years ago.”

Martín’s fingers flex against his back, but he doesn’t pull away. “If I had forgiven you more easily, agreed to go with you – would you have told me?”

“No,” Andrés says instantly. “Maybe eventually, but I wouldn’t have.”

“Then why tell me now?”

Andrés sighs. “I risked losing you - again. Permanently. You already despise me, what’s a little loss of dignity compared to that.”

He’s gently pushed away from Martín and prepares for rejection. Instead, Martín takes his face in his hands, pressing their lips together in a brief kiss.

“You’re so fucking stupid, Andrés,” he says, mouth twisted into an approximation of a smile as he strokes his thumbs over Andrés’ cheekbones. “And so very, very vain. You think I care about what you’ll be like at the end? About how you’ll change?”

“I’ve already changed,” Andrés tells him. “My hands… some days they shake so hard I can barely inject the treatment. My joints ache, the medication makes me queasy, but I can’t live without it. I’m quite the mess.”

“A mess because you’ve been doing it alone,” Martín accuses and Andrés can’t deny it. “But you don’t have to anymore. I’m here now.”

Andrés raises his eyebrows. “It’ll only get worse you know… I might lose control over my facial muscles, my respiratory system could start to fail.”

“It could, you might, and I’ll still love you,” Martín says bluntly.

“Does that mean that I’m forgiven?” Andrés asks and that finally, finally makes Martín smile properly, wide enough for Andrés to see his chipped tooth.

“Not completely, you have a lot to make up for,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t love you anyway, or that I won’t be by your side from here on out.”

Andrés kisses him, curls one hand around his waist, buries the other in his hair, and loses himself in it. He lets himself enjoy it, allows himself to feel beyond the sense of urgency and surprise and pain that dominated last time. As with everything he does, Martín gives himself over completely and Andrés’ chest burns with how much he loves him.

“Promise me you won’t send me away,” Martín gasps when they part. “If you can’t promise not to leave, at least give me that.”

Andrés nods. “I will, if you swear you won’t let me be helpless. I can’t live like that, I won’t, Martín. If I say it’s time, it’s time.”

Martín agrees and Andrés thinks he might be the only person in the world who loves him enough to promise that and mean it.

* * *

This isn’t how it was supposed to happen. Their heist was supposed to be a work of art, a monument to the life Andrés has lived, even if only Martín knows that. It was supposed to be stealing ninety tonnes of gold from the Bank of Spain and living the rest of his life in infamy with Martín by his side.

It isn’t supposed to be mistakes and explosions and gunshots. It isn’t supposed to be Martín crying out in pain as blood soaks the bandages covering his eyes and Denver arguing with Tokyo about getting an eye surgeon.

“No, I’m not letting you near my eyes with the same tweezers you trim your jungle with,” Martín yells when the bandages are removed and then Tokyo has her gun in his mouth.

Andrés pushes her away, ignoring his muscles protesting at the exertion. He snatches the tweezers out of her hand and leans over Martín.

“It’s okay, cariño,” he tells him, as Martín clutches at the front of his jumpsuit. “I’ll do it, I won’t let her near you.”

He picks up the loupe, and angles the lamp so he can see Martín’s eyes properly. They’re bloodied, the clear blue iris shot through with streaks of red and he can see the tiny shards of glass. But when he lifts the tweezers to start the removal, his hand shakes so hard he can barely keep a grip on them.

“Fuck,” he swears, readjusting and trying to convince his fingers to just do as he asks.

“Andrés,” Martín says. “It’s okay, mi amor. Helsinki can do it. You’ve been off the medication too long now.”

“I can do it,” Andrés insists, not saying that he needs to be able to do this for Martín, who has given him everything with out question.

But try as he might he can’t get the shaking under control, his fingers cramping and flexing of their own accord.

“Andrés,” Martín says again, but his mouth doesn’t move.

He is still staring, motionless up at the ceiling, but his eyes are unseeing, frozen and Andrés screams.

“Andrés, it’s okay. You’re okay,” Martín’s voice reassures him and then Andrés is gasping awake.

His hands frantically reach for Martín, even as he reassures himself that he’s in his own bedroom, with the sea outside and moonlight streaming in through the open curtains. Martín is sitting up beside him and the scars on his face are silver in the washed out light from outside, his eyes narrowed with concern.

“My eyes?” he asks and Andrés nods. “It wasn’t your fault,” Martín says, folding himself into Andrés’ desperate embrace. “Nothing short of laser surgery would have saved my eyesight completely.”

“I know,” Andrés says. “But I can’t help but wonder if -”

Martín kisses him quiet and when he pulls away, his hand is soft on Andrés’ face as his fingers trace a path from the drooping corner of his left eye to his crooked mouth. “Nothing you could have done would have changed the outcome, Andrés. But you were there to hold my hand and to make sure we both got out of there. That counts for something, doesn’t it?”

It’s the same thing he always says, when Andrés wakes from nightmares gasping for breath and desperate to have control of his body like he once did. One day, he’s sure it’ll stop working and Martín will need to find a new way to reassure him, but for now, Andrés takes it. He lets Martín press kisses to his forehead and cheeks, to his hands which never quite seem to stop shaking nowadays. He lets him guide him out of bed and through the French doors that lead directly out onto the beach, which looks black and white in the moonlight.

They sit on the sand together, right at the edge of the water, and Martín leans into Andrés and they don’t speak. They don’t talk about how recently walking, and even swallowing, has become harder and the doses of medicine stronger. They don’t say ‘how long do you think we have left?’ or ask whether there’s maybe another doctor out there somewhere who’ll take on Andrés’ case.

Instead, they watch the sea rush towards them and then retreat, before it starts the whole process over again. Instead, Andrés kisses Martín under the stars until he isn’t the only one shaking. Instead, they ignore the future as much as two people with a time limit can and just try to endure.

**Author's Note:**

> hope this was okay! obviously i'm nowhere close to a medical expert, all my knowledge about mitochondrial myopathy came from google so if there are any glaring errors please let me know!
> 
> if you didn't hate this I'd love kudos/comments or you can come yell at me on tumblr ([@hefellfordean](https://hefellfordean.tumblr.com)) or twitter ([@angstypalermo](https://twitter.com/angstypalermo)) if you like


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